She rises often, often drops again,

And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.
High o'er the restless deep, above the reach
Of gunners' hope, vast flocks of wild-duck stretch ;
Far as the eye can glance on either side,
In a broad space and level line they glide;
All in their wedge-like figures from the north
Day after day, flight after flight, go forth.
In-shore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge,
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge;
Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly

Far back, then turn and all their force apply,
While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry.
Or clap the sleek white pinion on the breast,
And in the restless ocean dip for rest.

Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind
Appals the weak, and awes the firmer mind;
But frights not him whom evening and the spray
In part conceal-yon prowler on his way;
Lo, he has something seen; he runs apace,
As if he fear'd companion in the chase;
He sees his prize, and now he turns again,
Slowly and sorrowing-'Was your search in vain?'
Gruffly he answers, "Tis a sorry sight!

A seaman's body: there'll be more to-night!'

AN ENTANGLEMENT.

[From Tales of the Hall.]

[The following is an extract from one of the Tales of the Hall, entitled 'Delay has Danger.' A young man, who is happily engaged to be married, finds himself, during a visit in a friend's house, partly through his own weakness and folly, partly through the cunning designs of others, compromised in his relations with a girl of inferior station and insignificant attractions. The dialogue that ensues is between the unwilling lover and the girl's ado, ted parents, who are upper servants in his host's house, and who, having brought about the entanglement, now affect to encourage the lover in his timid advances]

'An orphan maid—your patience! you shall have
Your time to speak; I now attention crave-

Fanny, dear girl! has in my spouse and me
Friends of a kind we wish our friends to be,
None of the poorest-nay, sir, no reply,
You shall not need-and we are born to die;
And one yet crawls on earth, of whom, I say,
That what he has he cannot take away :

Her mother's father, one who has a store
Of this world's goods and always looks for more;
But, next his money, loves the girl at heart,
And she will have it when they come to part.'
'Sir,' said the youth, his terrors all awake,
'Hear me, I pray, I beg--for mercy's sake!
Sir, were the secrets of my soul confessed,
Would you admit the truths that I protest
Are such-your pardon—'

'Pardon! good my friend

I not alone will pardon, I commend ;

Think you that I have no remembrance left

Of youthful love and Cupid's cunning theft?

How nymphs will listen when their swains persuade,
How hearts are gained and how exchange is made?
Come, sir, your hand—'

'In mercy hear me now!' 'I cannot hear you, time will not allow :

You know my station, what on me depends,
For ever needed-but we part as friends;

And here comes one who will the whole explain,
My better self-and we shall meet again:'
'Sir, I entreat—’

'Then be entreaty made

To her, a woman, one you may persuade;

A little teasing, but she will comply,

And loves her niece too fondly to deny.'

'O! he is mad, and miserable I!'

Exclaimed the youth; 'but let me now collect
My scatter'd thoughts; I something must effect.'
Hurrying she came 'Now what has he confessed,
Ere could come to set your heart at rest?
What! he has grieved you! Yet he too approves

The thing! but man will tease you, if he loves.
But now for business: tell me, did you think
That we should always at your meetings wink?
Think you, you walked unseen? There are who bring
To me all secrets-O you wicked thing!
Poor Fanny! now I think I see her blush,
All red and rosy, when I beat the bush;
And "Hide your secret,”—said I, "if you dare!”
So out it came like an affrightened hare.
“Miss!” said I, gravely: and the trembling maid
Pleased me at heart to see her so afraid ;
And then she wept,-now, do remember this,
Never to chide her when she does amiss ;
For she is tender as the callow bird,

And cannot bear to have her temper stirred;—
“Fanny,” I said, then whispered her the name,
And caused such looks-yes, yours are just the same?
But hear my story-When your love was known
For this our child-she is in fact our own-

Then, first debating, we agreed at last

To seek my Lord and tell him what had passed' 'To tell the Earl?'

'Yes truly, and why not? And then together we contrived our plot.' 'Eternal God!'

'Nay be not so surprised,

In all the matter we were well advised;

We saw my Lord, and Lady Jane was there,
And said to Johnson-Johnson, take a chair.'
True we are servants in a certain way,

But in the higher places so are they;

We are obeyed in ours and they in theirs obey-
So Johnson bowed, for that was right and fit,
And had no scruple with the Earl to sit
Why look you so impatient while I tell
What they debated? You must like it well.'

That evening all in fond discourse was spent When the sad lover to his chamber went,

To think on what had passed, to grieve and to repent
Early he rose, and looked with many a sigh
On the red light that filled the eastern sky;
Oft had he stood before, alert and gay,
To hail the glories of the new-born day:
But now dejected, languid, listless, low,
He saw the wind upon the water blow,
And the cold stream curled onward as the gale
From the pine hill blew harshly down the dale;
On the right side the youth a wood surveyed,
With all its dark intensity of shade;

Where the rough wind alone was heard to move,
In this, the pause of nature and of love,

When now the young are reared, and when the old
Lost to the tie grow negligent and cold-

Far to the left he saw the huts of men,
Half hid in mist, that hung upon the fen;
Before him swallows gathering for the sea,

Took their short flights and twittered on the lea;
And near the bean-sheaf stood, the harvest donc,
And slowly blackened in the sickly sun;
All these were sad in nature, or they took
Sadness from time, the likeness of his look,
And of his mind-he pondered for a while,
Then met his Fanny with a borrowed smile.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

[WILLIAM BLAKE was born in London at No. 28, Broad Street, Golde Square, on the 28th November 1757; he died in Fountain Court, Strand, on the 12th of August, 1827. His Poetical Sketches were published in 1783, and the Songs of Innocence in 1787. In 1787 was also published The Book of Thel; and this was followed in 1790 by The Marriage of Heaven and Heil, in 1791 by The French Revolution, and in 1793 by The Gates of Paradise, the Visions of the Daughters of Albion, and the America. The Songs of Experience, designed as a companion series to the earlier Songs of Innocence, were issued in 1794Of the later productions of the poet nearly all belonged to the c'ass of prophetic books. To the year 1794 belong the Europe and The Book of Urizen; in 1795 appeared The Song of Los and The Book of Abania, and in 1804 the Jerusalem and the Milton.]

The poetry of Blake holds a unique position in the history of English literature. Its extraordinary independence of contemporary fashion in verse, and its intuitive sympathy with the taste of a later generation, would alone suffice to give a peculiar interest to the study of the poet's career. Nor is this interest in any way diminished by a knowledge of Blake's singular and strongly marked individuality. Indeed, it is scarcely possible to do justice to the great qualities of his imagination, or to make due allowance for its startling defects, unless the exercise of the poetic gift is considered in relation to the other faculties of his mind. He appealed to the world in the double capacity of poet and painter; and such was the peculiar nature of his endowment and the particular method of his work, that it is difficult to measure the value of his literary genius without some reference to his achievements in design. For it is not merely that he practised the two arts simultaneously, but that he chose to combine them after a fashion of his own. An engraver by profession and training, he began at a very early age to employ his technical knowledge in the invention of a wholly original system of literary publication. With the exception of the Poetical Sketches, issued in the ordinary form through the kindly help of friends, nearly all of Blake's poem!